


eyes closed, head first (lose, lose, lose)

by philthestone



Series: destrozada, just a little bit [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fake Character Death, angst with happyish ending? heck if i know, basically a missing scene from "all that laughter", listen the first time I wrote this i made myself cry Why Do I Do These Things, part of the amy-fake-dies universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I talked to him,” Amy says, softly, interrupting her. Her big doe-eyes flick down into her lap, and Rosa can see the glassy shine, the way they're suddenly overbright. “I – before. Last night? He was the first person I went to, when they let me, I – I called my parents and then I –” She looks back up. “I’m sorry, Rosa.”</p><p>“Good,” says Rosa. Amy grimaces, but Rosa tells herself that she can't find it within her to care. “He’ll be okay now,” she continues, looking down at the scuffed leather of her boots. She thinks absently that she should buy a new pair. “So will you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	eyes closed, head first (lose, lose, lose)

**Author's Note:**

> missing scene from the Terrible Awful amy-fake-dies au fic
> 
> I wrote it a while ago for a prompt but I brushed it up a little, as I did with "all that laughter", and here it is:
> 
> Amy goes to see Jake after they tell her that she's not dead anymore.
> 
> Reviews are blessed and welcome

The first thing that she notices when he opens the door is that he needs a haircut.

The second thing that she notices, quickly after the first, is that his whole body seems frozen, rooted in the spot, the most motionless she has ever seen him in her life. It's startlingly apparent, and her voice dies in her throat as she takes him in - from his tousled head to his overlarge, faded Captain America t-shirt to the bare feet poking out from under hole-riddled pajama pants - at the absence of any semblance of fidgeting, any notion of bounce to his body.

The third thing hits her only once she opens her mouth and whispers, “Hi”; that there is a fractured quality about his eyes that is unfamiliar, and it makes Amy want to take his face in her hands and tuck his head against her neck and hold him, makes her want to crack as many insane jokes as she can, makes her want to do _something,_ move heaven and Earth and all manner of other cliche things, until it goes away. 

(Makes her wonder if she will ever be able to forgive herself for putting it there.)

She doesn’t do any of those things, though, and says, again: “Hi, Jake.”

The sound of his name seems to jar him out of his frozen state.

He breathes her name, barely audible: “ _Amy._ ”

She takes a deep breath and says, for a third time, “ _Hi,_ ” and the movement is dreamlike, Amy thinks, as she watches his hands come up slowly and fluttering like he’s scared she’s an illusion, tips of his fingers brushing against her cheeks, tracing the shape of her face.

“This - “ He’s inhaling, shaky and stuttering. “This isn’t a dream.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, blurts, eyebrows creasing and breath catching because _God is she sorry_. “Oh, Jake, I’m so, _so_ sorry -”

And then he’s kissing her, and she can’t say that she’s completely surprised, can’t say that she doesn’t immediately kiss him back and draw her hands over the back of his neck, through his too-long curls, lets him pull her to him with shaking hands. His lips are chapped and soft all at once, and she can feel the fluttering breakneck pace of his heartbeat through the thin material of his t-shirt, thrumming against her collarbone. 

She’s pressing her nose against his cheek when she realizes that it’s coming away wet.

“You’re not a dream.” He repeats it, more firmly this time, but his voice is still breaking, the pieces crumbling off the ends of his words, dissolving and scattering with each breath he takes. “You’re real. You’re real, I was right, I was really right, y-you’re _alive_ -”

And he’s really crying, tears spraying against her cheeks when he blinks, but it’s okay because she feels her own eyes sting and now she does cradle his face in her hands.

“I’m alive.”

“You’re alive.”

“You - you knew I was alive?”

It comes out a question but Amy's not sure that it isn't a statement. She feels, after all, that she should be more surprised than she is - that she couldn't have possibly expected Jake to take this lying down, or to take it at _all_ , in fact.

(She wonders, briefly, what would have happened had she _really_ \- 

She wonders, _briefly_ , and she hates herself for it.)

He nods at her words, reflexively, but stops halfway through and frowns and shakes his head; his eyes are big and brown and confused and still-glistening, and he's biting down on his lip and God help her but the fractured look is still there in his eyes. “I - I didn’t - I _couldn’t?_ ” (She notices; this comes out a question, too.) He takes another gasping breath. And then, “ _Amy._ ”

Just her name. 

(She cannot remember the last time Jake was so at a loss for words.)

She says, again, “I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry,_ ” because she can't think of anything else she could possibly say, hands coming down from his cheeks to rest at his shoulders. She can't think of anything else she could possibly say, because they’d spent the past two years dancing around this whole thing - _them_ \- two years, Amy thinks, but not really, because Jake's been a goddamn constant in her life since she was first assigned to the Nine-Nine. Jake with his always-laughing eyes and his too-wide grin and the way he'd flick tootsie roll wrappers at her from across the desk; _Jake_ , with his kindkind smile and his warm, gentle teasing and the way he pretends like he isn't quite as lost as he really is, pushes aside everything and more just to make sure that she, Amy, is comfortable and happy and Okay. 

And the timing was always terrible, she thinks, so _so_ terrible, but there was never a moment where it wasn’t real, and Amy hates herself for not realizing that sooner.

Jake hugs her, then, a big bear hug, tight and warm and soft, just like she had always imagine hugging Jake would be but she’d never really done it properly and now she stands there wondering why, because Jake gives amazing hugs, just the right amount of strength in his hold but his frame just soft enough that she can hug him back like she would a favorite pillow. His face buries itself in the crook of her neck and she presses her hand against her neck and swallows against the unexpected lump in her throat, because she was _ready_ , ready for the consequences of the assignment, ready for the weirdness and the isolation and ready to do what was necessary. But this -

_This._

“Don’t go again,” he whispers, mumbles into her neck, hands warm against her back. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she says, and doesn't finish the thought - doesn't say, _never_ , because she may be standing in Jake's living room in a half-buttoned coat with her head pressed into the crook of his neck, but she doesn't forget reality, not even then. 

(She would hate herself even more for making a promise she might not be able to keep.)

They curl up on the rumpled bedspread with a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and watch early episodes of Parks and Recreation together until Jake falls asleep, and it’s then that she notices the fourth thing - the bruises under his eyes and the lines around his mouth and she clears their spoons from the table and puts them in the sink, comes back and gently tugs the blanket out from under him, pulling it over his sleeping form.

She crawls under the covers with him, hugs him close to herself, her hands lacing around his midriff and her thighs pressing against his, and nestles her head against his shoulder. 

(It's another two months before she promises anything out loud, but:

She never leaves.)


End file.
